by Holley Trent
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Contents
The Gettysburg Vampire
An Angel Fallen
Rhapsody
A Demoness Matched
That Ol’ Team Spirit
Sneak Peek
The Gettysburg Vampire
Susan Blexrud
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2012 by Susan Blexrud
ISBN 10: 1-4405-6028-5
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6028-6
eISBN 10: 1-4405-6027-7
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6027-9
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com
Contents
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
About the Author
Acknowledgments
I gratefully acknowledge the books of Michael and Jeff Shaara, including The Killer Angels, Gods and Generals, and The Last Full Measure. They brought voices to historical characters and formed the backbone of my research.
And thanks from the bottom of my heart to my dedicated critique group — Jeanne Charters, Beth Robrecht, and Tara Horne.
“War at its best is terrible, and this war of ours, in its magnitude and in its duration, is one of the most terrible.” — President Abraham Lincoln
“Through blood and tears, this war has defined us as a nation.” — Union Colonel Malcolm McClellan
Prologue
1863
The locomotive sped silently past Union Colonel Malcolm McClellan, whose blank stare belied his shock. No whistle pierced the air. No smoke billowed from the massive steam engine. No vibration shook the ground. A chill breeze had stirred the silence and set him gazing to the northeast through the mounting dusk. Otherwise, he would have missed the Stonewall Jackson altogether. Summer granted no chilling breezes. Malcolm looked down the line at his men, huddled behind the trees at their makeshift camp in northern Virginia.
“Did you see that, colonel?” Clayton asked, his voice as shaken as the air. “That sucker just busted on through. Didn’t slow down a mite.” The men had spent the previous night pulling up a large section of track. Any normal train would have ground to a halt or derailed.
“It didn’t need to slow down, Clay,” Malcolm said. “It seems to have levitated.” Malcolm stared at the empty horizon where the train had sliced through at breakneck speed. His heart raced.
“Pardon me, colonel, but what does that mean?” Jack asked.
“I believe the train flew, gentlemen.” Malcolm stooped and picked up a rock. He flung it in the direction the train had sped.
Jack collapsed to his knees. “Good Lord, colonel. I’d figure I was crazy if we hadn’t all seen the same thing. We did all see the same thing?” He looked at his fellow soldiers, who all nodded. “You think that was the ghost train, colonel?”
Malcolm drew in a deep breath, and then blew it out with a cough. “I’m sure of it.” He helped Jack to his feet. Rampant rumors of the ghost train had circulated for months, but actually seeing it had caught Malcolm unaware. His stomach churned.
“So, what do we do now, colonel?” Henry’s voice squeaked. “Want William and me to mount up and follow the train?”
Malcolm removed his hat and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “I don’t believe you could catch it, not at the speed that train was traveling. Our orders from General Meade were to intercept the train, and since we can’t derail it, I’d like to try to get on it. I think the only way to do that is to entice it to stop.”
“What you think that train’ll stop for, colonel? Dancing girls?” Jack chuckled nervously.
Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “No, Jack. I’m no expert on ghosts, but I imagine the only thing that can stop that train is death. If I had to guess, I’d say the Stonewall Jackson is some kind of latter-day death carriage collecting newly minted souls. And there are plenty of them these days on both sides of the conflict, though being a Confederate train, I doubt it would take kindly to our Yankee souls.” Malcolm’s men looked back at him with questioning stares.
“I hope you’re not suggesting one of us volunteer to be a casualty, colonel.” William glanced sideways at Malcolm.
“No, William, I’m suggesting we pose as casualties.”
Again, all four men looked puzzled.
“This time tomorrow, we’ll stage a scene right here where we tore up the tracks. We’ll make it look like we were ambushed trying to fix the ties. Just William and me. We can smear some rabbit blood on our clothes and lie by the tracks. The rest of you can stand watch from behind the trees.”
“In your blue uniforms, they’ll know you’re Union, colonel,” Henry said. “Only Rebs would be trying to fix Confederate tracks.”
“We won’t be in uniform, Henry.”
“Surely not just in your skivvies, colonel.”
Malcolm smiled. “I’m afraid so.” He patted the lieutenant’s shoulder, and the churning in his stomach calmed as his plan coalesced.
“Then what, colonel?” William asked. “When they see we’re not dead, what’s to keep them from making it so?”
Malcolm squinted into the afternoon sun. “I don’t know, William, but if they think we’re Rebs, we shouldn’t be in immediate danger.” He half grinned. “You’ve been wounded before, haven’t you, Lieutenant?”
“Yessir, at Antietam.”
“So was I, at Gettysburg. I still have pain in my shoulder, and I’ve seen you favor your right leg. I believe we can seem wounded in a way that would fool the ghosts. From what little I know about them, ghosts aren’t typically violent. They’ll stop to pick up dead recruits, but I don’t think they’d do us any harm once they see we’re still alive.”
“Colonel McClellan, sir, pardon me, but I think you’re assuming a lot about the nature of ghosts, when you’ve never even met one.”
“They were once people just like us, William. Follow my lead. I did Shakespeare at the Point.” Malcolm smiled. “There’s something about performing
that frees a man.”
“Pardon me, colonel, but I’m no actor. I’m not sure they’d believe me, sir.” William removed his cap and twisted it in his hands. “I’ve never been a good liar, and I think they’d see right through me.”
“Well, that should even the odds, William, since you’ll be able to see right through them,” Henry said. “You know, them being ghosts and all.”
The men chuckled, and Malcolm nodded. “All right, then, William. If you feel you’d be a liability, join the other men. You can all be my audience.”
“You sure you want to do this, colonel?” Henry asked. “I don’t know how much help we can be. I mean, you can’t shoot a ghost, right? They’re already dead.”
Malcolm looked to the northeast, where, he assumed, this time tomorrow, the train would again materialize. “If you’ve got a better idea, by all means speak up. But we don’t have much time.”
Malcolm turned from the tracks and headed back to their camp. He quickened his pace as the adrenalin pumped through his system and his plan took shape. He’d feign a head injury. That would make the most sense. He’d appear to be knocked out, and then he’d “regain consciousness” once he was aboard the train.
He thought back to his acting days at West Point. In his role as Shylock, he’d mastered the character of a miserly old moneylender. Surely he could play a wounded Confederate soldier. And if he said he was from Maryland, he wouldn’t have to affect a Southern accent, though he might need to practice a rebel yell.
Though he’d been skeptical of the ghost train’s existence, he couldn’t deny what he and his men had just seen. Over the past year, the legend of the Stonewall Jackson had become fodder for local storytellers, and the tales swirling about the inhabitants of the train had escalated from ghosts to other more dreadful creatures like vampires. Malcolm had seen evidence of diaphanous spirits on the battlefield and felt the prickle of eerie presences. He could fathom the existence of ghosts. But vampires?
Chapter One
November
Kyle Matson leaned close to Abby Potter. “That vampire is about as scary as a hand puppet,” he whispered in her ear, and then he jumped out of his director’s chair. He dismissed the cowering student actors with a quick wave. “Take five. No, take ten. Oh, hell, let’s just wrap for the day.”
Abby bit her lip. She understood Kyle’s reaction, even agreed with him a little, though she’d never tell her students that. She reached for the hand of the female lead, who reclined on a tufted chaise, waiting for a neck bite that never came.
The student picked up her parasol and slunk off the set. The male lead, playing a vampire, patted his exaggerated widow’s peak, shrugged, and exited stage left. Abby hoped he hadn’t paid too much for that haircut.
“That vampire is a joke,” Kyle ranted after the students left.
Abby’s frustration rose to the surface. She shook a finger at Kyle. “Don’t criticize my students. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I need to go to Philly and hang around the Goth clubs for a night or two. Bet I could find a decent would-be vampire.”
“I need a convincing thespian, not just someone who looks like a vampire.” Kyle slapped the script to his thigh. “Besides, we shouldn’t use actors from outside the college.” As head of the theater department, his word ruled.
Abby sighed. “The holiday production is always a pain. Students are more focused on finals and going home for Christmas than trying out for a play. Even the actors I depend on most have begged out of this one.”
Kyle patted Abby’s arm. Actually, a punch would be more accurate. “I know, and they’d usually jump through hoops for you.” Kyle’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “We’ve had luck with professors in the past. How about Malcolm McClellan?”
The mere mention of the man’s name made Abby jerk with a shiver that radiated head to toe. “He’s intense enough, that’s for sure.” Also, broodingly sexy.
“And according to coeds, handsome enough. Besides, he’s a Civil War re-enactor.”
“You call that acting? Just because he can wield a rifle and gallop across a battlefield doesn’t mean he could play a bloodsucker.”
“He obviously gets off on being macho.” Kyle looked her directly in the eyes. “That’s the kind of guy we’re looking for.”
Abby’s hands went clammy. She didn’t want to look like a wuss in front of Kyle, so she balled her fists and steeled her resolve. “Oh, all right. I’ll go ask him. But if he says no, I’m on an all-out search for the scariest vampire I can find, which means going to a Goth club. It will kick the supporting cast performances up a notch if we have a good ghoul in the lead.”
Abby scuffed out of the theater and blinked into the bright winter sky. She’d spent the morning painting sets, and though she’d rather not confront Dr. McClellan in jeans and an old sweater that had shrunk in the wash, she needed to get this over with.
Snowflakes stuck to her eyelashes, and she pulled her blazer tighter around her as she strode across campus. At that moment, Abby longed to head in a different direction, maybe to the campus coffee shop for a mocha latte. She loved her job as associate professor in the theater department. She lived for the thrill of helping young actors hone their craft, but she dreaded the yearly challenge of finding a decent cast for the holiday production. And this year she had an additional burden; she’d written the play.
As much as she didn’t want to talk to Dr. McClellan, she had to admit Kyle was right. The professor would make an ideal vampire. He was certainly physical perfection. Tall, broad shouldered, and narrow hipped, there wasn’t an ounce of anything but muscle on his imposing frame. His face was GQ chiseled, with a strong nose and full lips. But eye candy didn’t begin to describe him. His larger-than-life demeanor could fill a room. She’d taken a Civil War history class from him in her sophomore year, and in spite of the fact that he’d scared the poop out of her, he’d also inspired her.
She recalled him striding around his classroom, weaving through the aisles of desks, painting word pictures of a battle. And then he would stop, planting his ice-blue eyes on a random student to inquire, “If you had been General Longstreet, would you have carried out Robert E. Lee’s orders?” You didn’t dare come to class unprepared. He put you there — in the midst of the conflict. You could almost smell the gun smoke and hear the cries of the men as he described the horrific realities of war like he’d been there. Because of his example, she’d decided to become a teacher. She’d also developed a serious crush on him.
Right before commencement, she’d gone to his office to let him know that he’d made a difference in her life. He’d listened to her, his expression grave, and then he nodded toward the door. Not a word, just a dismissive nod. Shaken, she’d slunk from his office, vowing not to cross his path again. How could the man be so passionate about history, yet so cold to his students? So much for her crush.
After graduation from Gettysburg and her subsequent master’s from NYU, she accepted a position in the theater department at her alma mater. She’d seen the professor on rare occasions at faculty functions, where they’d briefly locked eyes, but he kept to himself most of the time. Now, as she traversed the quad to the history building, her feet dragged as though chained to cannon balls. She hoped she’d be able to make her request without breaking out in a cold sweat.
Rather than ride the elevator to the third floor, she forced herself up the stairs, practicing what she planned to say with each step. Opening the door from the stairwell, she looked down the hall, lined with the offices of tenured professors. Taking off her blazer and draping it over her arm, she sucked in a deep breath and reminded herself that Dr. McClellan was just a man. He put his pants on one leg at a time. Scratch that. The image of him getting dressed gave her heart a jolt that was not conducive to calming her nerves.
She rapped gently on the door that read “Malcolm H. McClel
lan, Ph.D.”
Hearing what sounded like an agitated “Entrez,” she eased the door open. The professor did not look up from his desk. “Essays are due Friday. No excuses.”
He wore a black turtleneck, sleeves pushed up to the elbows revealing muscled forearms. His artistic hands rested on a stack of papers.
“I’m not a student, Dr. McClellan. I’m a professor. Perhaps you remember me?” Abby folded her arms, but then dropped them and settled for clasping her hands in front of her — less confrontational.
“So I see. Yes, I remember you.” His intense gaze scanned her head to toe. Did she detect a hint of appreciation? “Turn around.”
“Excuse me?” Was she being dismissed before she had a chance to say anything?
He laughed. “I just want to see if the orange paint you’re wearing is just on the front of your jeans or whether you’re entertaining onlookers from every direction.”
Abby looked down. The left leg of her jeans had a streak of paint from thigh to knee. Rather than turn around, though, she looked over her shoulder and arched her back to check the rear view. One hip pocket sported an orange handprint. Lovely. Then she realized her posture made her breasts jut forward at the professor, and she overcompensated by wrapping her arms across her chest. I’m behaving like an idiot. Without waiting for an invitation, which might not be forthcoming, she plunked into the wooden chair opposite his desk. “I’ve seen worse,” she said.
“Worse what?” He arched one eyebrow.
Worse what, my patootie. “Worse paint damage,” Abby said. Good time to change the subject. “I believe the last time I saw you, you were charging down Seminary Ridge.”
Professor McClellan arched the other eyebrow. “That’s Cemetery Ridge, Miss Potter. I’d expect better from someone who received an ‘A’ in my class.” He half smiled. “Is it still Miss Potter?”
